My Lawn Is A Gift For You, Too
Here’s hoping the yellow faces of daffodils bring you joy

It’s raining daffodils. Robert Loveman
I’ve adored daffodils since the moment my chubby toddler fingers could smush them into a nasal embrace. I’m fond of their brilliantly hued hardiness. And, of course, their perky crowns signal a new season.
“You’ve made it through the mounds of snow,” shout spring daffodils, almost as blinding as the ball of gas that’s melted away the drifts. “And before the swarms of mosquitoes arrive I gift you with my beauty.”
From the time I signed my first mortgage papers, I’ve had an item on my bucket list that involved hordes of narcissus bulbs and a plot of land. I was going to be that crazy soul with a lawn so plastered in daffodils that someone couldn’t pass by without a side glance — and at least a wink of a smile.
Three years ago my shovel and I finally made headway. We started slowly. With 20 King Alfred bulbs the first year. And 40 the next, adding in some Goblets and Jonquilla. And again this autumn, as leaves morph to orange and red, I’ve remembered to make my trip to the garden center. This year my daughter requested a few tulips be added.
I do it for me. And for you.

“Your lawn with its daffodils makes me smile every time I pass,” says the woman with a lion-haired dog impatiently circling her leg. “But my husband does have one question.”
“What’s that?” I ask. A grin from her compliment still blossoms from one ear to the other.
“He wants me to ask how in the heck you cut your lawn?” I laugh at what used to be a battle in our home. My husband wanted our yard manicured almost as soon as the snowblower’s tires stopped puddling in the shed.
“We don’t. We wait.”
Our lawnmower continues its winter slumber as our grass strives to reach the height of the yellow blossoms. My husband grunts and groans as dandelions fill in the spaces between their similarly colored pals. When the daffodil clusters finally dry to onion-skinned clumps, both he and our neighbors breathe a sigh of relief knowing that the spot where our yards meet will soon look less like Glacier National Park’s Rockies-meet-prairie.
Historically, flowers convey messages. Honestly, though, I didn’t consider the “meaning” behind the yellow flowers that begin dotting my yard around April. Thankfully for you and me both they symbolize “friendship, chivalry, and respect”. I’m going to ignore the part about unrequited love or misfortune — although I suppose my husband’s unrequited love with our Toro and short turf could be the victim.
As I upend soil and tuck bulbs into the earth, I imagine an even greater number of lemony-crown-induced smirks.
My lawn isn’t just for me. It’s for you, too.

©Jennifer J. McDougall 2021